


Snapshots in Picture Frames

by gumpekulla



Series: Snapshots [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Additional warnings in A/N, Allusions to Sexual Harassment in the Workplace, Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Barebacking, Cis Female Mycroft Holmes, Creative license taken with time frames, Developing Relationship, Dramatic Teenage Sherlock, Drug Use, Explicit Sex, F/M, Fluff, Her name is Myrtice here, I'm sorry but female Mycroft is my fav thing ever, Incest, Light Angst, Misogyny, Mycroft's sexuality is ambiguous, Mycroft-centric, Myrtice really doesn't like other people, Romance, Rough Sex, Sherlock Holmes and Drug Use, Sherlock is 17 when they kiss for the first time, Sherlock-centric, Sibling Incest, So I tagged Underage to be safe, So is Sherlock's, Time Skips, holmescest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-22
Updated: 2016-08-30
Packaged: 2018-08-10 09:04:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7838734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gumpekulla/pseuds/gumpekulla
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“I want you,” he whispered, clenching his hands into fists. She studied his face calmly, relaxing her grip on his hair to stroke it gently, as if to soothe. </i>
</p><p>  <i>“Yes, I gathered as much,” she said with a wry smile. “Have you ever been attracted to anyone else?”</i></p><p>  <i>Sherlock scowled. “Yes, at least up until they opened their mouths to speak.” </i></p><p>From childhood and onward, little snapshots of the twisted relationship between the Holmes siblings.</p><p>(no longer gonna add an epilouge, but it's now a series!)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1982-1997

**Author's Note:**

> **Warnings:** Nothing incestuous occurs between the siblings until Sherlock is 17 and Mycroft/Myrtice is 24, though Sherlock has been sexually attracted to her since he was about 12. There are mentions of a creepy Uncle who may be a bit too interested in Myrtice in underwear, but it's only mentioned between the siblings and not referred to in any detail. If incest and kissing between an adult and a 17-year old triggers you or makes you uncomfortable, **walk away.** The sexual relationship between them won't make an appearance until Sherlock is 18. Also, the drugs won't appear in the first chapter.
> 
>  **Other notes:** I put Sherlock's D.O.B. as 1980, and Mycroft's as 1973, making them younger than their actors. But since that usually is the case, I went with it. I divide each "snapshot" with the year they take place in and if you notice an error, please tell me, because I've changed the timeline a few times and might have missed correcting a few! Opps. 
> 
> I have a few more snapshots written, and will hopefully update soon. **This won't be a plotty fic** , so don't expect any in-depth exploration of all the excellent canon plots from each season (they will most likely be skimmed over in favour of the Mycroft/Sherlock relationship). 
> 
> Lastly, I'd like to apologise for any grammatical errors or typos, and the possible mixture of British and American English. English isn't my first lanuage, and though I was taught British English in school, I have been Americanized. Also, I am not blessed with a beta.
> 
> Anyway, enjoy!

**o-O-o**

**1982**

“No!  _ My!  _ I wan’ My!” William whined, face scrunched up into a grimace heralding a mighty fit should he not have his way. Mummy sighed and looked down imploringly at Myrtice where she sat by the kitchen table, dutifully working on her numbers. 

“Would you, darling?” she asked the little girl, obviously hopeful to avoid any further tantrums today. Myrtice heaved a heavy, put-upon sigh and started to diligently put her things away before standing and walking around the table. Reaching up, she silently accepted mummy’s burden and held her troublesome little brother close to her chest. His chubby little arms wrapped around her neck as he smiled in happy victory, and she didn’t even resist wrinkling her nose in dismay. Resigned, she took him off to the nursery.

“You should start potty training, William,” she stated for what felt like the billionth time, somehow still hopeful that his answer would change. Disgusted as he was by the idea, her little brother frowned.

“No,” he pouted, and she decided today was not the day. Mummy had said they would try when he’s older, though Myrtice was of the opinion that two years old should be enough. Especially since she had been the one to change her little brother’s soiled nappies since he was old enough to express his wishes in words. He cried and fussed less now with this new arrangement, though she had no idea why he had appointed her with the dubious honour of nappy changer.

“Pretty,” William giggled as she laid him down on a towel, reaching for the supplies conveniently placed within reach. She’d been leaning over him and he’d grabbed a hold of a ginger lock of hair which had escaped her braid. Reluctantly charmed despite the circumstances, Myrtice decided to indulge him.

“You dare call this Pirate Queen pretty?”, she gasped, and with a playful growl, she pushed up his shirt and blew a noisy, wet raspberry on his fat tummy. He shirked in delight, squirming and flailing, to which she couldn’t help but laugh. He was little, and slow, and different from her but she loved him, all the same.

Though, honestly, she could do without the nappies.

**o-O-o**

**1987**

“Billy is a horrible and ordinary and  _ childish  _ name. I’m seven, I’m not a baby anymore!,” William pouted, ripping up handfuls of grass where he sat on the edge of the blanket his sister was lying on. She was on her stomach, flipping through a book, her hair in a braid down her back to keep from brushing against her face. He liked it better loose, so he could brush it with his fingers or a comb. It curled less than his, fell in more subtle waves, but was a fascinating colour of copper Mummy said she’d gotten from their French grandmother. Mummy’s hair was blonde while daddy’s was brown, just like his own. Dull colours. But Myrtice wasn’t ever dull, she was too smart and too brilliant, always, even when she was annoying and mean ( _ ‘Don’t be smart, William,  _ I’m  _ the smart one’) _ .

“I’ve tried to reason with Mummy. I’ve told her William is a perfectly serviceable name, without any silly abbreviations,” she commented absently, flipping another page. She was teaching herself Mandarin, for some reason.  _ ‘It’s one of the most common spoken languages in the world, William, it can only be an advantage to know it’.  _ “But sadly, she’s rather fond of nicknames.”

William huffed and flopped down to lie on his back next to her, pouting up at the canopy of the tree they were under. “William is too ordinary,” he sulked. “At least Myrtice isn’t as dull.”

His sister laughed, pausing in her book to look down at him. “You mean it’s odd,” she said with a wry smile. “Mummy only named me thus to appease Grandmother. It’s an old family name, like your middle name Sherlock.”

Oh, brilliant! William grinned up at her, reaching up to pull at the sleeve of her dress. “I wanna be called Sherlock, that’s odd too, like you said! It’s not ordinary, and it’s not dull, and it  _ is  _ my name!”

Myrtice raised a brow at him, reluctantly amused. “Why not Scott then? Not odd enough for you, William Sherlock Scott Holmes?”

He wrinkled his nose. “You’re not funny, My.”

“Oh, I don’t make you laugh, do I?” she asked innocently, her intention not made clear until it was too late. Pouncing, she had him pinned under her with full access to his fiendishly ticklish ribs. “How about I play some rib-harp then,  _ Sherlock _ ?”

“NOO! MUMMY!”

**o-O-o**

**1994**

Sighing, Myrtice stood tapping her foot in impatience outside the bathroom door. She was home from Cambridge for the summer, disgruntled to once again be away from their library and the perfect solitude of her single room. She always looked forward to seeing her little brother though, fascinated as she had always been by the changes in him. From learning to crawl, to walk, to talk; from learning to observe, to absorb, to deduce. At fourteen he was still painfully slow, but even so, he was such a fresh breath of air compared to the morons that made up the rest of the world.  _ Though slow is still the word I’m inclined to use,  _ she thought with annoyance.

“For God’s sake Sherlock, if you’re not getting out of the bath then  _ let me in!” _ she finally snapped, banging at the locked door. The sound of a body moving in water only made her angrier. Fuck, she didn’t have time for this!

“NO!” came her brother’s muffled reply, indignant and childish. “‘M not done, wait for your turn!”

“I don’t care, Sherlock, I just need to get my damn hair and make-up done! I can do all that with you  _ still in the bath, _ you annoying little twat. It’s not like you’re using the goddamn mirror!” For good measure, she banged on the door once more, to get her displeasure across if he somehow failed to hear it in her voice.

“NO, Myrtice, I’m bloody  _ naked!  _ Just sod off!”  

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” she growled, reaching for the hairpin keeping her fringe out of her face. Louder, she continued, “It’s nothing I haven’t seen before, Sherlock, I changed your nappies until you were three fucking years old! Now let me in!”

An embarrassed groan was heard, followed by the violent splash of a fist hitting the water. “Shut up Myrtice! That’s  _ not the same!  _ I’m  _ fourteen _ , not  _ three! _ ” 

She rolled her eyes, bending the pin and inserting it in the lock. “Modesty: how  _ quaint, _ brother mine. Since when are you modest about  _ anything? _ ”

“MYRTICE!” he yelled, voice cracking, no doubt hearing her picking the lock and seeing the doorknob rattle. Violent splashing and cursing followed, but she had the door open within seconds, having learned to pick any lock in the house to perfection years and years ago. “GET  _ OUT!” _

Leaving the door open behind her, Myrtice surveyed the scene as she stalked over to the sink and mirror. Half-risen from his bath, Sherlock stood frozen in anger and mortification, until she smirked in amusement and caused him to hastily drop down into the water again. Knees drawn up to his chest, he sat glaring at her with dark contempt. 

“Oh honestly,” she sighed, turning away from him and reaching for her vanity bag in the cupboard. “Calm down, you’re not a Victorian maiden. I’ll be quick, promise.”

She was already covering up her annoying freckles by the time he’d seemingly regained the ability to speak. “Cunt,” he snarled, causing her to still in her movements. Resolutely, she started up again and finished in silence, keeping her eyes on her reflection. Mascara, and a light touch of gloss. A brush through her hair, left loose but away from her face with a blue silk headband. She could hear him shifting uncomfortably in the water, the silence between them heavy and strained. Good.

“Myrtice,” he called for her, subdued, as she put away the last of her things, getting ready to leave. “I’m sorry.”

Looking his way, she eyed him with a narrowed glare. “Don’t be like them, Sherlock. We both know you’re better than that,” she scolded him, still a bit unsettled by his unusually vulgar and derogatory insult. She’s been called that, and many other vile things, by many before. An unfortunate side-effect of always being the smartest one in the room, and being female to boot. Sherlock’s insulted her plenty, and fairly, since she’s insulted him right back. But never like this. She’s always been fascinated by how he changed and grew and improved, but this, this wasn’t an improvement at all. “Be angry and annoyed with me, but don’t you dare spew ignorant bile.”

He ducked his head, brown curls damp and unruly, long enough to shield his eyes. “I know,” he replied, falling silent for a moment before he looked up at her again. “I’m sorry,” he repeated, to which she nodded, satisfied at his sincerity. A dark look passed behind his kaleidoscope eyes, before he flashed her a mocking smirk. “Aren’t I making you late for your date? He’s been waiting for you in town, no doubt. When are you going to introduce him to Mummy?”

Affecting a horrified look which made him laugh, Myrtice waved a hand before her face in vehement dismissal. “Goodness no! There will be no meeting the parents, even if you do tattle, brother dear,” she said, giving him a pointed look. “No, this is just for fun. I don’t do sentiment.” With that, she waved him goodbye and left, purposefully not closing the door behind her.

“Real mature, Myrtice!” she heard Sherlock call after her, annoyance clear in his voice. Grinning, she skipped down the stairs. He had a lot to learn still, if he thought she was off to see a man. No, Josephine was all woman, unlike Simon and Lucas and Adam before her. 

**o-O-o**

**1997**

Sherlock had fled to his sister’s room (still hers, no matter that she lived in London now) as soon as he managed to escape cousin Antoine’s annoying company. Urgh, Christmas. Bad enough that they had to endure it each year, but to have their relatives from France decide to visit for the first time in eight years? Unbearable!

Now, he had commandeered one of Myrtice’s many pillows and lay lazing about on her bed as she rifled through her suitcase for her pyjamas. He’d already gone through her luggage in the two hours he’d been hiding in here before she joined him, exasperated but sympathetic to his plight. He’d found nothing too exciting, though he’d blushed furiously at the smooth, silky feel of her knickers (too feminine and naughty to be called pants, he reckoned), and scoffed at the unfamiliar scarf which had obviously been a gift (an admirer who liked her in green, who wore too much cheap cologne; nervous disposition, considerably older, and definitely male (he wouldn’t make the wrong assumption again, not after what’s-her-name)). By the annoyed huff coming from her, he had no doubt she’d known he’d invaded her privacy again, as was tradition by now. He was insatiably curious of what she got up to when he wasn’t around to observe it first hand, a condition he had suffered from as long as he could remember. 

“What  _ possible _ interest could you have in my bras and knickers, Sherlock?” Myrtice sighed, shrugging out of her dress and unlatching the lacy one she was wearing one-handedly, her back turned to him. Observing her intently, he swallowed. (The bra matched her knickers: a dark blue contrasting with her pale skin and colouring). 

“I was attempting to calculate how much weight you’ve gained since last time I saw you; the fat inevitably goes to your tits, hips and thighs, dear sister,” he drawled, deflecting with his favourite insult. The day he discovered her absurd and unnecessary insecurity regarding her weight was a blessing. As if her figure made her less brilliant, ‘centerfold’ body or not. It was a rare point of stupidity for her, and he glorified in it. 

“Dubious pastime as that is, brother mine, I think I might have preferred joining you, over enduring the ghastly company of our dear cousin and Uncle,” she drawled in reply, shrugging into a large cotton shirt she’d been using as a nightshirt for the past three years. It just barely covered her bum, allowing peeks of her knickers when she walked, or sat down. It frustrated him immensely. 

“Nah, uncle Gerard would’ve sensed you were contemplating your own underwear and come up here to watch,” Sherlock drawled, laughing when Myrtice swatted at him in a half-hearted reprimand. He rolled away, making room for her to join, and she sprawled comfortably next to him. “You know it’s true!”

Sighing, his sister shifted to lie on her side, resting her head on her folded arm. He turned his face to look at her, grinning. “Yes, unfortunately,” she replied as she reached over with her free hand and swept it gently through his hair. He closed his eyes in enjoyment, basking in the physical affection which had dwindled in the last few years. Mostly because of himself, he acknowledged. 

He felt her snag a curl around a finger and tug gently, making him look at her again. She was regarding him intently, her clever eyes sharp as ever, but her thin lips soft in a bemused smile. “He’s not the only one interested in me in my underwear though, is he?”

Flushing hotly in shock and dread, Sherlock froze, his eyes wide as his brain tried to process the situation. “D-don’t be stupid!” he sputtered, getting ready to roll off the bed in indignant protest at her knowing look. He felt dizzy with nausea, mortified as the secret he’s kept since he was twelve was threatening to make itself known. Her hand sunk deeper into his hair and tugged once in warning, keeping him in place.

“We are going to talk about this, Sherlock,” she stated calmly, staring him down. “You don’t have to worry; this will stay between us. I’m not disgusted, but I am concerned. I should have noticed it earlier, but you’re unique in that you remain one of my few blindspots.”

Swallowing harshly, Sherlock stared at her, uncertain what to say. He’d known about this since he caught himself seeking her out as she was changing, or getting into the bath, with his cock throbbing eagerly. He’d known it, and wanted to drown himself in shame. He’d avoided her as much he could, until he was fifteen and felt his heart stutter at her smile. The theory of this simply being a biological reaction of a teenager to another attractive and healthy naked body began to crumble. Now, two years later, he stared at her and desperately wished misplaced lust was his answer to the question in her eyes.

“I want you,” he whispered, clenching his hands into fists. She studied his face calmly, relaxing her grip on his hair to stroke it gently, as if to soothe. 

“Yes, I gathered as much,” she said with a wry smile. “Have you ever been attracted to anyone else?”

Sherlock scowled. “Yes, at least up until they opened their mouths to speak.” He was rewarded with a soft laugh, and a brief look of shared understanding. His chest felt warm.

“So you feel attraction to others, that’s good,” she continued, nodding to herself. For a moment, they were both silent, before she rolled her eyes and sighed. Scooting closer, she rested her forehead against his, causing his breath to catch painfully in his throat. “Bugger this, it really isn’t my area. I don’t need to tell you the obvious; that it’s illegal, and considered to be perverse and taboo and many other tedious words for things which fall outside the scope of perceived morality. I won’t do you the discredit of lying; I’m not disgusted or disturbed. Surprised, yes. And to be perfectly honest, I have no idea what to do from here.”

Feeling dizzy with hope, and a bit of mischief, Sherlock tilted his head enough to press a soft, dry kiss to her lips. It barely lasted a second, and caused her hand to flex in his hair. “I’ve got a few ideas,” he whispered, breathless. He almost let out a whine of distress when she pulled back from him, but the look on her face was merely contemplative.

“I imagine you do,” she replied with soft amusement, and he shivered as she ran her hand down to cradle his cheek. “However, I honestly shouldn’t even contemplate this at all, Sherlock. I’m your sister, and seven years your senior besides. You’re smart, brother dear, and know your own mind. I trust you in that; I trust that you know what you want. What concerns me, is if you know what’s  _ good _ for you. Because this,” she paused to lean in and return his kiss, equally chaste but lingering just a few moments more, making his lips tingle maddeningly, “should not be good for you at all. And you should know, brother mine, that I’ll never willingly do anything which is truly harmful for you.”

Frustrated at having what he’s wanted for so long this close, Sherlock pleaded with his mind for ways to sway his sister his way. But all he could feel was her lips against his. “Then tell me, what can I do to have you?” he groaned, disgusted by his inability to be brilliant when he really needed it. “How the hell do I convince you you’re the best thing that could ever happen to me? That you’d be harmful to me is absurd, Myrtice, surely you can see that! You are the  _ only one  _ who  _ gets me! _ ”

Humming, his sister regarded him with too soft affection. He longed to make her infuriatingly calm eyes burn with the heat she caused in him. “All right,” she offered him a miracle, “I’ll do this, on a few conditions.”

“Anything,” he breathed, eyes wide and unable to stop himself from reaching for her, dragging her closer, until her legs slotted together with his and they were breathing the same air.

“Patience,” she drawled, putting a hand on his chest and keeping him at bay. “We do this, but you need to promise me, Sherlock, to not shut the rest of the world out. I can’t be the only thing in it, you need more than that. You need something to fall back on, a way out. I don’t ever want you to feel trapped, in this. I’ll love you, always, no matter what. I will always be there, but you will never owe me  _ this, _ ” she kissed him again, covering his mouth with her hand when he chased after her for more. “You must promise me you’ll try to find someone else, Sherlock.”

He glared at her until she freed his mouth. “And if I don’t find anyone?” he snapped, uncomfortable by her sincerity and annoyed at the implications that he would one day change his mind about this, that he needed anyone besides himself and his sister.

“If you don’t, I’ll still be here,” she replied with a shrug, and something painful twisted in his chest.

“Fine, I promise,” he snarled, impatient and high on hope. As she opened her mouth to reply, he dove in to silence her with his own. Enough. He had her, finally, and he let out a low groan of relief as she opened up for him instead of pushing him away again. His body felt on fire as her tongue brushed his lips, as he devoured her and let his hands roam every curve he had observed with religious zeal for too long. She moaned, a confirmation of her desire, which he up until now hadn’t thought to question. That she’d accepted him, and talked so easily of his desire for her, had distracted him. Had she wanted him prior to this? If so, for how long? Did she want this as desperately as he did? Question he was now determined to have answered, if only his mind would focus enough, but--oh, her tongue, her hands. The breathy little moans, the heavy weight of her breasts. Her naked thigh between his legs, pressing. God. Damnit.

  
Another time, then.

**o-O-o**


	2. 1999-2000

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Myrtice from 26 to 27.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge thanks to everyone who had left a kudos! :D Also bookmark! I feared I would get nothing >_> So yeah, thank you people! :D If anyone would like to leave a comment as well, that would be awesome <3
> 
> Anyway, this chapter spans a very short period of time. It's full on sex and then Sherlock's drug addiction enters the picture. Not in relation to the sex, however, but just a heads up! 
> 
> Also, some allusions to sexual harassment in Myrtice's workplace, though it's not explicit and she's quite vicious about it.

**o-O-o**

**1999**

”I’m bored,” Sherlock grumbled in her ear, having snuck up behind her where she stood leaning against the kitchen counter, crowding her in. He’d long since outgrown her, his chin resting comfortably on the top of her head when she wasn’t in her heels, and had taken gross advantage of the fact for years.

“You’ve got the attention span of a four-year old still, I see,” she remarked dryly while pushing her cup of tea out of harm’s way. Sherlock had come down to London for the weekend, temporarily abandoning his studies to invade her flat and take over her schedule. They’d spent the whole day in bed, being appallingly lazy and indulgent, and she’d only left him sleeping to refuel.  

”I’m your guest, you should entertain me,” Sherlock remarked, entitled brat that he was. His hands had been resting on her hips, but trailed around to playfully toy with the knot holding her dressing gown together. It was blue silk, her brother’s favourite on her, and the only thing she was wearing. Unlike him, who was completely starkers, the cheeky sod.

“I’d say I’ve entertained you plenty already,” she replied, thinking of riding him on her sofa in her pencil skirt and short-sleeved green shirt, and of dropping to her knees in the shower to let him fuck her face. She shivered at the memories as he started to undo her belt, parting the robe and exposing her to the slightly chilly air of her kitchen. He stood pressed close all along her back, peering over her shoulder and admiring the view.

“Mmm,” came his absent-minded agreement, somewhat muffled as he had his face buried in her hair by now, breathing in deeply through his nose. She’d left her hair undone, indulging him in his obvious preferences, but as a result of their activities - and his wandering hands - it was a knotted mess by now. Thin and silk-like, it rarely snarled, but Sherlock had been...committed...in messing it up.

“Insatiable as ever,” she murmured, feeling languid and indulgent as his hands started to roam. They were large and warm, callused from various experiments and the violin she’d bought him for his eighteenth birthday. She adored them and the way they travelled her body, giving life to Sherlock’s tactile nature. He loved to touch, to feel and experience things with all his senses, and she wasn’t yet cold enough to remain unaffected when _she_ was the subject he most wanted to study.

“You make me want you so much I think I might go crazy,” he breathed in her ear, pulling her lobe into his mouth and flicking her earring with his tongue. They were small hoops of white gold with princess cut diamonds and totally unnecessary, but she’d been advancing rapidly at work and felt she deserved a treat. She rarely got to bask in her own femininity, something she would’ve scoffed at as a thirteen-year old uncomfortable in her own skin. Now though, she felt very much like a desirable woman, unfortunately pudgy stomach and all.

Sighing, Myrtice arched into the warm body behind her, pressing her bum against Sherlock’s stiff erection and enjoying his sharp intake of breath. “Doesn’t take much, does it?” she taunted, sending him a cheeky look and a coy smile over her shoulder. He cupped her breasts and rolled his hips, grinding into her and groaning. She felt herself flush in appreciation at his excitement, biting her lower lip as she tried to stifle a pleased little grin.

“I’m going to fuck you right here,” Sherlock growled, pinching her nipples and nosing gently at her cheek, feeling her warmed-up skin. “Just hitch up your leg and push right in.”

She made a noise of lazy agreement low in her throat, enjoying the burn of arousal as Sherlock tugged the robe off her body. It pooled in a puddle of silk on the floor, kicked out of the way impatiently. She braced herself by bending over and gripping the counter, laughing quietly as her leg was lifted up, his hand cupping the fold of her knee. “Yesss,” she hissed as he slid the tip of his cock along her wet slit, probing her clit. He moaned his agreement before he pushed inside, a forceful thrust that had her rocking up on her toes, the counter digging into her hips. His free hand was once more playing with her breasts, tugging at a nipple, and he was moaning into her hair as he started fucking her hard and fast.

“Fuck you feel so good around me,” he growled over the obscene noises they were making; skin slapping, her pussy dripping with arousal, their moans and gasps unrestrained in the privacy of her well-isolated flat. “Tight, hot and _wet,_ so fucking wet, My.”

She groaned in enthusiastic agreement, shameless as he pounded into her, his cock long enough to reach all the good spots, his girth enough to make her ache for him (in a decidedly good way). She clenched around him, unable to control it, pleasure building up low in her stomach and making her whine for more. He loved the idea of coming inside her, loved messing her up, and it did _things_ to her, good things. She felt powerful, desirable. Sensual. To reduce her self-proclaimed genius brother to _this_ , was heady and satisfying. He could vex her so, make her worry for him while simultaneously wanting to strangle him herself, but like this--oh. His pleasure aroused, and his desire excited. She wasn’t a particularly sexual being, rarely sought it out on her own accord, but he was an irresistible novelty. A rare find in a world of goldfish.

“I want to take you like this in your new office,” Sherlock panted as she squirmed on his dick, one of her hands grasping desperately at the counter while the other was busy between her legs, rolling her clit between her fingers. “Let them see who gets to fuck you. They’re all idiots, they wouldn’t know what to do with you. They don’t get to want you, My, but they can’t help themselves, can they?”

She thought about colleagues and superiors who feared her intelligence, scorned her sex and altered their expectations based solely on her gender rather than her accomplishments. Mr. Mitchell who stared down her blouse while patronisingly telling her how to do her job, as if she hadn’t prevented several diplomatic incidents by stepping in and taking over from him on a regular basis. The oily, blank stares she has come to expect from walking through a crowd of mindless animals. She was not an overly attractive woman, though this simply meant they expected her to be grateful for the attention rather than repulsed. No, they shouldn’t be allowed to want her. They were so far below her these little fishes it would surely be some form of bestiality. The image of her brother taking her in front of them amused as much as it aroused: those silly, slow things would hardly know what to do with themselves.

“Oh, but you do - _ah!_ \- then, brother mine?” she panted out in reply to his words. “You get to want me? To - _mm yes, there_ \- fuck me?”    

He snapped his hip in a particularly hard thrust, causing her to swear out loud, and pressed a smug smirk against the sweaty skin of her shoulder. “Yesss,” he hissed before he leaned back and pushed her flat against the counter. She was now dangling off of it, her front and cheek pressed down, and he’d let go of her leg to grab her hips instead. She was going to be black and blue with bruises - well, more than she already was - by the rough handling. He had always loved to leave his mark, after all.

“You’re close,” he managed to observe, no doubt feeling her muscles tremble and contract around him. She’d lost her leverage to stimulate her clit, but his sharp thrusts were hitting that spot inside which caused something low in her belly to drop. It wouldn’t take much more for her to come now, the ache in her body from his hands and his cock driving her towards the edge.

“ _God,_ do me _harder_ , please!” she pleaded in a rare moment of desperation, knowing full well what it did to Sherlock without needing his choked off noise to confirm it. Myrtice might be the one with the power complex, but her seeming surrender to him drove him wild like few things could.

He complied with her request promptly, making her breath hitch as she choked on noises of relief. “ _Filthy,_ ” he growled, fingers flexing on her hips, nails digging into skin. Her arse was going to be tender from his bony hips slamming into it with the force he was now applying; she’d feel it sitting down, undoubtedly. He knew it too. “Filthy, wanton, _shameless.”_

“Fuck!” she shouted as he slammed into her again and again, feeling the buzz of pleasure draw tight in her belly. She tensed in anticipation, going rigid as orgasm started to wash over her, her pussy aching as her thighs trembled and her back arched. Relief came over her and she moaned out her bliss, body twitching. Sherlock didn’t relent, forcing her body to move as he took her. She could take it, wasn’t overstimulated yet, but the pleasure was now accompanied with a sweet ache that forced tired little sighs out her mouth.                

“Myrtice,” Sherlock panted, clearly nearing his breaking point. He fucking into her a handful of times, going still on the last one, buried to the hilt and swearing. Semen filled her, though not as much as the first time they fucked after he got here for the weekend (he rarely masturbated, and hadn’t had any sexual interactions with anyone but her). She’d had an IUD for years, and Sherlock had asked so nicely to forgo the condoms, she hadn’t felt inclined to refuse. That he got off on it was perhaps not unusual, and either way, she hardly minded, despite the mess.  

“Fuck. Could you stay there?” he asked after a few moments, having caught his breath. Lazy, she nodded, sighing a little sadly as he pulled out of her, cock softening. She heard him drop to his knees behind her and she obediently spread her legs, clenching her muscles and feeling a trickle of semen drip out of her. Her thighs were already sticky with her own fluids, so adding to it wouldn’t make a difference.

“How pedestrian,” she teased, folding her arms and resting her head on them. “Straight out of a cheap porn video, this. Have you been researching again?”

She yelped and almost slipped off the counter when Sherlock bit her left arse cheek, hard, in response. For good measure, he’d followed it up with a slap on its twin. “Shut up, Myrtice. You’re still not funny,” she could practically heard him blush. Looking over her shoulder, she shot him a condescending look, raised brow and all. She closed her thighs and slipped down until her feet touched the floor, ignoring his noise of protest at ending the show prematurely.

“Bad boys don’t get treats,” she drawled, pushing him away to give her space to turn around. Grumbling, he stood up and reached for her, pulling her into a kiss as soon as she stood facing him. She bit his tongue.

“Ow! What was that for?” he whined, pouting and willfully indignant. She patted his bare chest and slipped free of his embrace.

“Don’t ask stupid questions, Sherlock,” she drawled, because he knew full well what that was for. “Now clean up this mess while I refresh myself.” The counter would need a good scrubbing after this, she saw.

“Myrtice! Don’t be dull,” came his complaint. She ignored him and continued walking out of the kitchen.

“Bad boys don’t get treats!” she repeated over her shoulder, naked and bruised. She’d left her robe behind deliberately, after all. His eyes felt like burning on her back.

**o-O-o**

**2000**

_“I trust that you know what you want. What concerns me, is if you know what’s_ good _for you.”_

_“You must promise me you’ll try to find someone else, Sherlock.”_

 

He somehow managed to keep his word yet break her trust in one swell swoop the year she turned twenty-seven.

Away at Cambridge completing his chemistry degree, Sherlock had finally made more than a token effort to make a friend. Victor Trevor, twenty-three and a genius in his own right, when it came to chemicals and the profit which could be made out of the right combinations (the latter a revelation that came way too late). Myrtice had had him vetted, as she did anyone Sherlock brought to her attention. He had dutifully paraded several acquaintances - women, men, the undecided or ambiguous - before her to show he still remembered his promise, smug little brat that he was. None had truly stuck, until Victor. She had deemed him suitable enough, what with his shared passion for chemistry, and her little brother had seemed ever so eager at his find. She hadn’t had the heart to dampen his excitement, though Mr Trevor was suffering from severe internalized homophobia and would not be reciprocating Sherlock’s obvious interest. She was self-aware enough to not deny she was relieved at this knowledge, but had enough self-preservation not to hover around the two as Sherlock explored this new venture into friendship and what he thought could be more. This had, obviously, been a grave mistake on her part. She should have risked the mess of sentiment and kept an eye on things, then perhaps she would have detected the disaster before it spiralled out of control. As it were, she wasn’t in time to stop Sherlock from being convinced to try Victor’s new merchandise. She wasn’t in time to prevent it from going further.

It wasn’t until he came to her - eight months after he first brought Victor Trevor to her attention, seven months since he stopped coming around, six months since she decided to give him space and turn her attentions elsewhere - high as a kite and burning up from the inside out.

“He hates me, Myrtice. He hates me,” he babbled, frantic and shaking, speeded up beyond his capacity to run. “I can’t make it stop, my mind’s too fast now, like yours and it’s brilliant but I can’t, I can’t. He laughed at me, he called me a freak. He’s just like them, Myrtice, why did you make me do this, he’s _just like them._ Cunt, fag, whore, _freak!_ ”

“Oh Sherlock,” she sighed, taking him in, her heart breaking. She couldn’t remember ever being this furious; at herself, at Sherlock, at _that fuck._ She had felt the trust in what they had crumble, that promise she’d had them build this on break. If he couldn’t, with all his smarts, tell that these drugs - that Trevor asking him to try in the first place - were not good for him...that they were harmful. Then how, she thought, could she let this - _them_ \- continue? She would not be another drug, another Trevor. She ran a hand through his dirty hair, snagging on snarls and knots. Breathed out with a sigh, resigned. He trembled, and she offered him the only thing she could, at the moment. “I’m still here, Sherlock. I’m still here. And I’m _sorry._ ”  

  
Caring really wasn’t an advantage.

**o-O-o**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bliss was woefully short for these two. Opps.
> 
> Will hopefully piece together another chapter soon. Comments motivates a whole lot! ^-^
> 
> Find me on **[Tumblr!](http://gumpekulla.tumblr.com/)** I'm thinking of doing some drabbles on there, or post WIPs and story ideas I'm working on :)
> 
> Anyway, thanks for reading! :D


	3. 2004-2007

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock from 24 to 27.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a link in the text that says "pixie cut". It links to a google image of what I image Myrtice's hair looks like. Yupp, she's a blatant ginger in my AU. Not sorry. (Also Karen Gillian makes my heart go all pitter-patter).
> 
> Anyway...wow, I finished this chapter much earlier than I thought! I live in hope that if I finish it, I might get some comments. *fingers crossed*
> 
> No particular warnings for this chapter. Some fluff, some casual Molly admiration because Molly is awesome. Though, well, this is Sherlock's PoV so...not an Ode of Love to her (much as I'd like to write one because aww, Molly Hooper feels<3).
> 
> Enjoy! Hopefully! :)

**o-O-o**

**2004**

Sherlock turned twenty-four in rehab, lost in the hell that was detox. It was his third time, his  _ last time. _ Because the first one was forced, and he came out of it wishing he was still lost in the drugs. It had seemed a better alternative to the reality he had faced at twenty-one; betrayed by what turned out to be just another moron, not the exciting adventure he had hoped for, and denied the one person he had assumed would be his forever. He had raged, he had pleaded, he had put the blame on everyone but himself. She would not listen, so he didn’t either.

His second trip to rehab was on Mummy’s demand. Myrtice had kept quiet of his habit, a small mercy, but Sherlock had gone and cocked that up as well; shooting up in his childhood bedroom and mistaking the dose, because of too many painful memories. He was clean for barely a month, before he deduced Myrtice was seeing someone and had been, since his first relapse. What reason did he have to stay clean then?

Now, his third time in hell, he was here on his own terms. He was tired of waking up with gaps in his once infallible memory, tired of the deep pit of despair that followed each high. The indignity of begging for another hit, the misery of the moments he caved and sought out his sister for her hand in his hair, her eyes on him once more. The shame of realizing what it was she saw, now. That thing in the mirror. He’d proven her concerns right, and he would never have her again if he continued down this path.

He told her this, when she came to visit, a cupcake with a single candle. “Oh, Sherlock,” she said, eyes sad and mouth drawn into a thin line. “You shouldn’t be doing this for me. Do this for yourself, please.”

He knew what she was thinking. Ridiculous, that she should compare herself to the poison Trevor had provided, the poison he himself had been stupid enough to partake in willingly. “You’ll be mine again,” he promised her before she left, his eyes hungry as they memorized her ( _ risen once more in the ranks, gained a personal assistant - female. No recent sexual contact. Treated herself to a new wardrobe, cut off her hair to conform to a more strict image; misogynistic boss and colleagues. Tired, but determined. Stressed, but intellectually stimulated. Alone, as was her preferred state. But lonely.  _ Oh _. Very lonely.) _

She left troubled, but he would put that to rest. In time.

**o-O-o**

**2005-2010**

She was fucking  _ stubborn _ , but so was he. She conceded to him in places where he pushed just right, though remained frustratingly immovable in other areas. He liked to think of it as delayed gratification; he would get them there eventually.

**o-O-o**

**2005**

He finished his Chemist degree after his last stint in rehab, if only to stave off boredom and have an accomplishment on paper he could show mummy without shame. It had also made Myrtice look at him with undisguised pride, the day he graduated with honours. Something which evoked as much satisfaction as it did annoyance, the same as ever with his dear sister. Even delirious on the novelty and enjoyment of their brief but illegal liaison, they had annoyed each other. But at least then, he mused bitterly, their sharp tongues and agitation could be put to better use. With Myrtice’s new enforcement, they were left with strained silences and forced distances, arguments rife with hidden meanings and unspoken griefs. On occasion, however, Sherlock laid down his battle axe and Myrtice lowered her defences, and they met in relative peace. Such was the case now, with Sherlock lounging in Myrtice’s sofa, his head in her lap as she read through some documents.

She was scratching at his scalp with painted nails. They were trimmed and painted a subtle peach colour, as understated and neat as the rest of her. She wore her hair in a youthful [ pixie cut ](http://www.short-haircut.com/wp-content/uploads/2016/08/Images-for-Pixie-Short-Haircuts.jpg) nowadays, wavy fringe swept to the side, and would sometimes allow him to bury his nose in it when they embraced. She wore pencil skirts with smart blouses or suit dresses to work, complete with modest pumps that didn’t hurt her ankles. She’d created an image of herself of a successful career woman, smartly dressed but never boldly. Myrtice Holmes blended into the background of her work, and people were more inclined to think her an assistant or secretary before they would ever guess she was well on her way to becoming the most dangerous person in England. To him, she had always been.

“You went to the New Scotland Yard today,” she commented out of the blue, interrupting his lazy musings. Sherlock huffed in annoyance at the break of pleasant silence; his mind had been humming softly for once, as it was wont to do whenever his sister doled out her soft affection. The frantic noise of the world had been shut out, firmly put away the moment he closed her town house’s door behind him.

“That case, in the paper. With the murders. I solved it,” he mumbled, eyes still closed. She hadn’t stopped playing with his hair; small mercies.

“Of course you did,” she said, confident in his abilities. It shouldn’t make him flush with pleasure still. He wasn’t an idiot, he knew he was brilliant. At least, he did now. Though his sister still made him feel like a moron, sometimes deliberately and sometimes accidentally. It was hard to tell most times, which caused him to assume she was being deliberate, since anger and annoyance at her taunting was much better than the feeling of inadequacy and stupidity the other option left him with. “I take it they listened to you this time?”

He made an annoyed noise at her allusion to Carl Powers, which she ignored. He sighed. “Yes. This police officer was decidedly less moronic. An idiot, still, but with enough brain to realize my brilliance.”

“Yes, Lestrade. With consulting you, he might be going places,” Myrtice said. It revealed that she already knew everything, of course. He hadn’t expected anything else; his sisters near omniscience had long since ceased to be surprising. “A Consulting Detective? Creative as always, brother mine.”

Blinking open his eyes, Sherlock looked up at her. She’d put aside her documents, one hand still in his hair and the other resting warmly on his chest. Her face was makeup free, freckles and imperfections visible. He liked her best like this, one less mask she was wearing. She’d forgone her bra, as was usual the moment she got home. After a shower she’d slipped into one of his old sweatshirts - sentiment, and a reward for him after today - and soft cotton shorts. She couldn’t look more appealing, naked or dressed indecently. Warm, inviting. Her hair tousled, her eyes gentle with affection. 

“Please,” he breathed, voice vulnerable. He didn’t dare think what she saw in his face right now, reflected in his eyes. Myrtice pursed her lips, her brows drawn into a troubled frown. He saw her falter and went in for the kill. “I’ve already taken another case, in America, for a private client. I’m thinking of moving, too. Lestrade said he’d have more business for me; cold cases, at first. To prove myself. I’ll have a living, and a better flat. I’m clean. I’ve been good, haven’t I?”

He watched her intently, seeing her give in with a soft sigh. Giddy, he stayed stock still as she leaned down. Soft, warm lips pressed to his forehead. A noise escaped him, but he pretended it hadn’t; too pathetic. She kissed the tip of his nose and he closed his eyes. His cheeks, the lid of his eyes next; his breath hitched. Gentle fingertips touched his lips, tracing them, before his jaw was cradled in a tiny hand.

“Good boys get treats,” she whispered, breath hitting his chin. He whimpered as she lingered above his mouth, their breaths mingling. “Just this once,” she said before her lips pressed against his; chaste but lingering. His mind ground to a halt, static noise of electricity. She was everywhere at once, suddenly. Memories, sensations. He hadn’t noticed that he’d reached out to grasp her neck, keeping her there, until she let out a noise of protest. He didn’t care. Ran his tongue along her lips, tasting her, pleading with her.  _ Let me in.  _

“No, Sherlock,” she gasped, wrenching herself away. He groaned, chest aching and mind screaming. His hand flexed on her neck as she hovered above him, looking at everything but him. He tugged gently, hoping. She looked at him again, eyes dark and cheeks flushed. There was a mournful twist to her lips. “I can’t.”  _ You’re still recovering, _ she doesn’t say.  _ I can’t trust that you’ll  _ stay _ well yet.  _

He resisted snarling, knowing it would only worsen his chances. Instead he sighed and nodded, resigned (for now). She pecked him quickly, an apology, before drawing back. His hand fell from her neck, landing on the one she still had on his chest. He cradled it, stroked it. So small and soft and unmarked, unlike his own.

She couldn’t give him this. At least, not yet.     

**o-O-o**

**2007**

There was a young woman at Bart’s, Sherlock found, that made his life considerably more convenient in exchange for a few compliments and faked sincere attentions. Doctor Molly Hooper, a mousy pathologist that wore her crush and hero worship for him on her ghastly patterned sleeve (who the hell wore cherry printed cardigans?). With his Chemistry degree and budding career as a Consulting Detective, he had found himself gaining access to and utilizing the laboratory at St. Bartholomew's hospital. In doing so, he not only came in contact with Mike Stamford, but also Doctor Hooper. A decent lab partner, as it turned out, and pleasantly agreeable to accommodate him without any bribes from his dear sister. 

“I’m insulted, Sherlock, that you would think I’d bribe dear Doctor Hooper,” Myrtice had commented upon hearing his thoughts on the matter. He’d, naturally, snorted in disbelief. “I admire her, frankly. Top grades, in fact, she graduated early. She chose a field of study dominated by men, and is climbing the ladder with remarkable speed. Understated and underestimated. I would not overlook her, dear little brother.”

He rolled his eyes at her little speech. “Recognising yourself in her, Myrtice? How dull.”

“Gods no,” she exclaimed, wrinkling her nose in disgust. “She’s a horribly sentimental creature, who dresses like a child. Literally. Even you were able to properly colour coordinate by the age of four.” She’d smiled at him, condescending wanker that she was. “Better late than never, I suppose.”

“Oh sod off,” he snapped irritatedly. When she smirked at him he threw his glove at her head, catching her off guard for once. “She’s got impeccable taste in men, however.”

“That,” Myrtice drawled, picking up the glove from where she sat opposite him at the café table. “Is a blatant, filthy lie.”

She didn’t give it back. “Casualty of the War, brother dear.” 

  
**o-O-o**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So he's recovered somewhat from the drugs and started his career now. Lestrade, Mike and Molly are in the picture. And Mrs. Hudson, though it's only been implied (the case in America). John to go!


	4. 2010-2012

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Myrtice age 37 to 39.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay! Thank you matomato for the first comment :) 
> 
> Here's a John, Adler and the early Hiatus chapter! Gosh, it's turning into more of a fluffy love story than I had planned. Opps?

**o-O-o**

**2010**

“He flirted with you, and you  _ encouraged him _ ,” Sherlock snapped as he stalked into her office (the real one, larger and more comfortable than the decoys). “You  _ never _ do that!”

She smiled to herself, putting down her book and neatly crossing her bare legs. She’d forgone stockings, and removed her pumps, when she’d decided to take a break in her schedule in anticipation of this visit. Calmly, she looked up at where he stood fuming in his coat and scarf still. He wasn’t furious - annoyed and jealous, perhaps - but that never really stopped him from being dramatic. It was also, admittedly, an excuse to drop by. She’d practically hand-fed it to him.

“It wasn’t exactly a challenge,” she drawled in response. “The good Doctor was quite eager, I assure you, even after I bribed him and told him I’m your archenemy. And he did seem sympathetic to my plight; I do worry about you constantly. You should keep him. His lack of self-preservation must surely appeal to you, dear brother. He did also shoot a man for you, so you see, I do quite like him.”

Violently throwing himself down on the old armchair opposite the sofa she occupied, Sherlock made his displeasure clear in the sullen look on his face. “You don’t desire him in the least, sister of mine.” If the endearment was more forceful than perhaps warranted, Myrtice let it go, just this once.

She shrugged. “Neither do you. But he did stand his ground rather well. Few people do.”

This time she watched him grin, the excitement of his new discovery in the form of an ex-Army Doctor bleeding through. “He’s something else, isn’t he? What routine did you give him? Classic Bond villain, judging by the kidnapping and abandoned warehouse. Turning up at the crime scene surely enforced it. It’d be more  _ Femme Fatale _ if it wasn’t for your obvious lack of any physical prowess.”  

She arched a brow at his cheekiness. “I wouldn’t say I lack any physical prowess where it counts, my dear.” Pointedly, she uncrossed her legs and watched him eye the naked skin. The rules she had put down for this - for  _ them _ \- were slowly growing more lax. She would need to tread carefully.

She’d seen him tense and shift, and was therefore not terribly surprised when Sherlock jumped up from his seat and stalked over to her. He bent down, one hand on the back of the sofa for balance, the other gripping her chin. She turned her head just in time, having his lips land on her cheek rather than her lips. He lingered there, kissing softly, before he murmured, “You  _ are _ my archenemy.” She shivered as he let go of her chin and wrapped a hand around her jaw, tilting her head back. “You’re holding what I covet the most hostage.”

She closed her eyes, touched at the sentimentality her bother displayed, the little fool. He’d risked his life to prove himself the cleverer man - typical Sherlock. This was the least he could do for her, the reckless tit. Even so, his proximity had her wary, the way his lips were still brushing her skin. There was no question what he wanted. Or, in his own words,  _ coveted _ . The  _ you _ was left unspoken.

She should dissuade him again. Increase their distance. 

“You’ve had an exciting couple of days. You should go home and get some sleep, Sherlock,” she murmured into the quiet. She felt him shift, and plant a knee on either side of her hips, settling down in her lap. Ridiculous, a man his size. 183cm to her 168.

“Shut up, Myrtice. I’ve eaten already, sleep can wait,” he grumbled, letting go of her chin to embrace her, drawing her in until she was pressed against his chest and his face was buried in her hair. She felt him inhale deeply, and closed her eyes in resignation. Relaxing into him, feeling him alive and well.

“Your new Doctor friend - and a wealth of his colleagues - would argue differently,” she drawled, her voice muffled by his coat and shirt. He must be boiling by now; it sure felt like it, engulfed in his heat as she was. Her hands had snuck up under his coat to rest on his back. “Though I’m fairly sure he would argue  _ this _ is even worse for you than a lack of sleep.”

He sighed, ruffling her hair, and she hid her smirk in the folds of fabric of his clothes. “Please, for the love of God,  _ shut up.” _

For once, she obliged. 

**o-O-o**

**2011**

Irene Adler, a woman Myrtice might have come to admire had circumstances been different. Myrtice served Queen and Country; a steady, loyal service. She might be fascinated by the rare glimpses of brilliance amongst an otherwise dull, moronic population, but it was always fleeting, her interests. Unlike her little brother, she was harder to tempt into losing her way. She wasn’t so crass that she could not acknowledge the woman’s smarts in keeping valuable information for her own gains - and that this gain was mainly her own safety was understandable, if predictable. 

No, what irked her was the way Miss Adler played her game. She could forgive her little brother his foolishness; a child playing with forces beyond his control, if not his mind. This woman, however… She had no business playacting a villain on Myrtice terrain, threatening her nation and being stupidly caught up in Moriarty’s sticky web.

Still, she was...unfortunately enticing.  

“I know she’s alive,” Myrtice commented, standing by the window in her brother’s flat. “You saved her.”

“Yes.” He didn’t bother to deny it, and she hadn’t expected him to. “Are you jealous?”

Her lips twitched. She might have been, but in the end, Myrtice stood here and Miss Adler did not. “We are both women of power. Perhaps I should be thankful you were able to spare her. I could not, for what she did.”

“No,” Sherlock snapped from behind her, much closer than he had been before. She could feel him now, his body heat along her back. “She catered to the whims of the pathetic and took her clothes off to make an impression. That wasn’t power.”

“Mm, so the sex didn’t alarm you?” She watched his reflection in the window and smirked at his glare. He could lie and say he had been unaffected by the woman and her bold sexuality, but they both knew this wasn’t true. That he’d been let down at the end might have struck a chord, the scarred over wounds left by Victor Trevor a non-forgotten ache. 

“I thought I’d found someone like you,” he surprised her. Put his hands on her hips, bent down to rest his forehead against the back of her head. “A miscalculation.”

“Another Ice Queen, hm?” She felt him shake his head. “We should count ourselves lucky, Sherlock, that neither of them suspect your loss would break my heart.”

He choked, sliding his arms around her, and hugged her tight. “What the hell am I supposed to say to that?”

She sighed sadly. “Nothing, brother dear. Nothing.”

**o-O-o**

**2012**

John Watson had come as a blessing as much as a curse, Myrtice concluded. Difficult as her and Sherlock’s relationship was to balance, at least on her end, the addition of a third party in the Holmes siblings’ drama had made it both easier and harder not to fall off the metaphorical tightrope. She had no longer been the only one in his life; he’d had DI Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson and Doctor Watson, as well as resourceful Doctor Molly Hooper. It had been what she had hoped for him, a state of being she felt would have fulfilled him the most. 

No longer heartbroken and twenty, no longer high and twenty-three. She had been pushing forty and alone, still. There had never been any question that she would end up there, so very different from what she knew Sherlock himself needed. Friends, and sentiment. He had looked healthy last year, strong and content where he circled around her. She had felt relief and pride, and a rare surge of happiness at what she’d observed. 

But after his “fall”, it was all gone.

Tonight, it wasn’t the first time they had met up in one of his safe houses in Europe, but she could sense that this time would be different. Not necessarily because of him, but more likely, because of her. Sherlock’s suffering was taking its toll on her normally stoic disposition. 

She walked into the run-down one-bedroom flat and saw him sprawled in a chair, regarding her with a lazy, heavy stare. For a moment it struck her, how different he was from only a few months ago. Run ragged and quiet, despairing and lonely. She ached for him.

“Sherlock,” she breathed, voice thick with things left unsaid. He straightened up from his sprawl, taking note of her unusual demeanour, on edge. She dropped the coat she’d folded over her arm and stalked over to him, heels loud in the small space. 

“Oh God,” he moaned, a distressingly desperate sound, as her intent became clear. He met her halfway, standing up and reaching for her as soon as she came close enough. His hands captured her face as he crushed their mouths together, hungry and aching for it. She tugged at his shirt, wanting it off, wanting everything off. Stolen kisses and too-intimate embraces over the years hadn’t been enough. They’d starved themselves because she was too afraid of harming him, or having him harm himself by using her to do it. She couldn’t justify it any longer, seeing him like this.

“I adore you,” she told him, breaking free to work on their clothes. “I’ve never stopped.”

He ripped the zipper of her dress trying to get it off. “I know, you sadist. I resent you for denying me for so long. But you’re mine now. All mine again, aren’t you?” Her bra didn’t survive, her tights ripped. He wasn’t wearing pants (no clean ones left; she’d have to get someone to fix him some new clothes). They were naked within moments, efficient and determined to get there.

“Yes, yes,” she assured him, running her hands through his hair, down his jaw and neck, over his chest and around her back, nails scratching. He lifted her up, hands under her bum, and she wrapped her legs around his waist. She’d need to scrub herself raw in the shower after making contact to the bed he was taking her to, but for now, she couldn’t be bothered to care.

“The world is dull and unbearable without you,” she whispered into his ear, her heart beating hard and quick at this dirty secret of hers. She would always prefer to be alone and separate from the masses, but she would always be lonely without him.   

“You undo me,” he gasped, dropping them both down on the bed, caging her between him and the lumpy mattress. “You are my constant. Your mind is the only one more brilliant than mine. There’s no one else in the world like you. I love you, Myrtice, I’m in love with you. Don’t you ever do this to me again.”

He fucked her hard and fast, and they clung together as much to keep them close as to keep themselves from falling off the bed. She ached from his cock, she felt raw and used, utterly undone. He whispered filth in her ear and she let her tongue loose, babbling when otherwise she would be deliberate in her choice of words during this act between them. But it had been years, and they had both changed since then. They hadn’t really known how to love, back in the beginning. Hadn’t yet survived what they had done now. 

“You’ll come back to me,” she panted into his neck afterwards, draped over his chest, his hand on her bum and head. Her voice was hoarse.

He squeezed her tight, kissing her hair. “Nothing could stop me.”

  
**o-O-o**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ripe with sentiment, this! Lalala~ But yes, so the explicit incestuous relationship has now resumed. I think it's just an epilogue left now :)
> 
> Anyway, you might recognize some quotes from the show. I've used one from season 3 earlier in my timeline (your loss would break my heart), and also had Sherlock repeat a line he said to Irene (catering to the pathetic). 
> 
> Also, John is a flirt and I don't think he'd pass up the moment to flirt outrageously with Myrtice, especially if she encouraged it. The picture it makes is amusing, especially with Sherlock disapproving ;)

**Author's Note:**

> The "rib-harp" is a thing from my own childhood. Basically, your evil older sibling sits on you and grinds their knuckles into and along your ribs, like a harp. Only, the music they're creating is the hysterical laughter and screaming of a very ticklish younger sibling, and not the harmonic sound of an actual harp.
> 
> Anyway, thanks for reading!
> 
> Find me on **[Tumblr!](http://gumpekulla.tumblr.com/)**


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